Different but the same

    Last Sunday, the lector at our church was a 15-year-old young man with no arms and no legs. A special lectern had been set up that was height-appropriate and the mic adjusted properly. Ordinarily, he would be the sort of person that you couldn't stop staring at. Trying to make sense of how on earth his hands (normal looking) could possibly be coming straight out of his shoulders and how his feet (also normal-sized) were inches below his hips.
    No one stared awkwardly at him, though, because we had already seen him so many times. We knew more than his name, we knew his family, knew his favorite sports teams, knew by heart the sound of the resonant voice that was already deep into adolescence. Knew that he was a fiend for jelly doughnuts and personally spearheaded the Coffee Hour signup sheet to ensure that said confections were close at hand. Knew him for more than the outward signs that made us different. We knew him for all the little things that made us the same.
    At what point, I wondered, did I begin to view him for who he was and look beyond the outward features? How many of us have differences that aren't so neatly visible and how do we treat those we perceive as different?
    What kind of courage did it take to stand in front of a congregation that might stare and tsk-tsk at his misfortune? Unless the kind of courage he exhibited was that he trusted us to take him as he was, without judgment or analysis.
    As I watched this young man's mother translate all that was said and sung into American Sign Language to another child of hers - a daughter who was an altar server and also hearing-impaired, I knew that this was church. This was the way that a spiritual community should be: every person is valued, every person is needed. There may have been a time when an altar server who couldn't hear the sermon or speak the prayers was unheard of, a time when if you couldn't reach the lectern you were not needed. But I am glad to live in a time when bit by bit, people are beginning to accept differences as incidental and our sameness as essential.
    I feel at peace to live among people who recognize that you can't always control who you love and that we all dance to different drumbeats. I am content to have friends from all walks of life, friends who accept me as I am, and friends that love as fiercely as family.
    It would be a shame to waste even a moment slicing and dicing our differences when there is so much living to do.